


but there's something about us

by averagefaces



Category: 2PM (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 19:53:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averagefaces/pseuds/averagefaces
Summary: or: the one where junho lies when it comes to chansung. (or maybe he doesn't. it's all about perspectives.)





	but there's something about us

**Author's Note:**

> Published July 2014. Revised March 2017. Reposted January 2019.   
> This is a work of fiction, no harm intended to any parties involved. Please do not repost/copy or translate without permission; you're welcome to share this link. Thank you for reading!

 

_ If your lover held you back, what would you do?" _

-

one; 

> _ "If we were simply dating […], then I’d probably stay if I didn’t have work to go to. But if I was really busy, then I’d persuade my lover before leaving." _

The thing is this meeting can be pushed. It can be pushed and rearranged and held tomorrow morning and no one would even notice; one of the perks of producing your own shit is people sort of follow wherever you lead. And if you lead them into a dead end and say, "well, guess what, we'll have to postpone this meeting because I'm not  _ feeling  _ it today," then chances are they'll nod and let you be.

So, yeah, Junho intends to use this to his advantage right now, and probably tomorrow, and in a few weeks when the stress is too much and too intense, and he won't feel guilty about it, at all.

"I thought you had a meeting," Chansung says as he comes from the bathroom, and there's something otherworldly about him right now, with steam curling around his shoulders and his hips, skin pale and wet and slick, hair sticking to his forehead and curling a bit around his ears.

Junho blinks at him, lazily, still tired from his flight and the thorough welcome sex they just had, so excuse him if he's not feeling inclined to move at all. He stares at Chansung because he  _ can _ , because he's got all the time in the world—at least right now, right here—and Chansung's enjoying it, even if he pretends he isn't as he goes to his closet and picks a pair of boxers. Junho keeps it up, catches every single bit of skin he can, imagines every bit that he cannot, and it's—it  _ calms  _ him, and that's a dangerous thought to have.

This,  _ they _ , this thing between them, it's soothing, sometimes. Junho would never admit to this out loud, but most of his songs are about them. Some are about him, about the way he feels; some are about Chansung, the way he feels, the way he moves and the way he talks, the way he's sharp but gentle, strong and weak under Junho's hands. Junho's a complete sap, he knows he is, and odds are Chansung also knows this, but either way it's only theirs to know.

Makes sense, in a way.

"S'not important," he says, and maybe he's taken too long to reply, because Chansung's looking at him like he's crazy, so he clarifies, "The meeting, it isn't important, or, like, you're more important than it is, anyway," and tries not to choke around his own heart when Chansung smiles this happy, pleased thing from under the towel he's using to dry his hair.

"I thought you liked this whole producing thing," Chansung says, throwing the towel towards the hamper.

Junho shrugs, as far as he can while lying down, and then stretches on the bed, breathing in deeply and feeling his chest expand and his heart beat a little easier. "Guess I like you better. God knows why, though, you're as annoying as they get."

They're riling each other up. It's how they work, how they've worked for years, and it's probably the only way they know how to be themselves now. Junho isn't against it, doesn't think it'd change their dynamics in any way had they met somewhere else—anywhere else—but there's something at the back of his mind, too, nagging insistently, like a verse that has to be written down before it goes away. Junho knows how to deal with those—with the lyrics and the chords and the arrangements in his head—but he's got no idea how to handle uncertainty, how to handle doubt. And it's not like he doubts this thing he has with Chansung, no, he doesn't, hasn't in awhile.

It's the  _ what happens after _ what's really out of his grasp.  _ What happens after the cameras, what happens after you decide it's not worth it anymore, what happens after we get caught, what happens after we aren't enough for each other. _ It's the fact that they just sort of  _ are  _ but  _ aren't  _ at the same time what makes Junho so confused.

The buzzing of his phone makes his brain stop for a second, and when he stretches over Chansung's side of the bed to get it, he finds a text from Bongwon, "mkt wants cover concept for tmr morning b sure to bring it w u when u drop by."

"Work?" Chansung asks, dropping down on the bed, the remote held loosely in his right fist.

"Yeah," Junho says, and throws his phone towards where he supposes his discarded pants are lying on the floor. "Marketing wants my cover concept."

"You got it?"

"All set," Junho nods, propping himself up against the pillows until his forehead's tucked into the ball of Chansung's bare shoulder, while the noise of a cooking program fills the room. Junho knows it's a rerun because he caught it in the airport, some five hours ago. Feels like years, though, and yet he's supposed to catch another one in three hours, and just how pathetic is it that Junho has to spend more time flying than actually walking around the places he's been to.

He's—he's happy, though, he loves this thing, his job, his songs, his lyrics. He only wishes he didn't have to put so many other things on hold for it.

After a while, there are fingers on his hair. "You okay?" Chansung asks, voice warm and quiet. "You've gone all quiet on me. That's never a good sign."

It's a testament to how well they know each other. Junho breathes in deeply and shrugs a shoulder, the one he's not lying on at the moment, and Chansung chuckles, low and warm, and presses a kiss to the top of Junho's head and Junho is so fucking gone on him,  _ so gone on him _ , his chest feels tight and his stomach is no better. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe past it, past the knot in his throat and the tightness in his chest, and it works, coupled with Chansung's fingers drawing soothing patterns on his scalp.

"I'm okay," he says, again out of time, and Chansung's fingers stop. He hums his assent, though, and Junho pulls away a little, presses a kiss to Chansung's shoulder. "Just stressed over this damn album. You know how it is, don't you?" he asks, cheeky, and Chansung snorts, their gazes locking.

"Yeah, I kinda know how it is," he says.

"You hungry? I'll make pancakes," Junho smiles but doesn't move, just drops another kiss on Chansung's skin, closer to his collarbone this time.

It makes Chansung smile, eyes soft around the corners, soft and tired and Junho loves him, so, so much. "With chocolate chips?" Chansung asks, one of his hands fitting over Junho's ribs, the pad of his thumb swiping at the skin slowly, gently.

Junho nods, sort of dazed and a little lost when Chansung leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Junho's mouth, his lower lip fitting right under Junho's. "Chocolate chips," he says, voice rough, "yeah. Anything you want."

"Okay," Chansung says, a breathy thing, and reconnects their lips again.

He rides Junho slow and tortuous, one hand braced on Junho's chest while the other moves over his cock in slow strokes, and Junho watches with rapt fascination as Chansung comes undone above him, skin flushed and sweaty and head thrown back, his neck a long line of pale skin that Junho itches to touch with his mouth and tongue. Right here, right now, Junho wishes they could have this  _ always _ , every night and every morning and in between meals, Chansung pressed close to him, gasping his name and clutching at Junho's arms for support.

Chansung comes first, Junho's name on his lips, and a half-hearted "Fuck," bitten back, nails digging into the skin of Junho's side as he holds himself up and covers Junho's stomach and chest with come. Junho fucks him through it, as deep as he can go, and licks his lips when Chansung shudders and clenches around him, tight and hot, grinning down at him, cocky and flushed and spent. He follows soon after, clutching at Chansung's hips and panting into Chansung's temple when he drops forward to bury his face in Junho's neck.

"I like chocolate chips," Chansung mumbles after a few seconds, his hips still moving in tiny circles, straightening up and dropping a kiss to Junho's jaw while Junho's fingers travel up his spine. "Like this a lot more, though."

Junho's smile is tight around his lips.

 

-

 

two: 

> "If I was held back after arguing, […] then I won’t leave because I think it’s very important to communicate well with each other and make up."

Junho isn't jealous. No, really, he isn't. There are worst scenarios in his mind to be jealous about, and this one—these past few weeks—doesn't even come close. And yet—

"You sure look pretty cozy," he says, and Chansung looks up from his styrofoam cup to raise his eyebrows at him and it's—it's awful, the look Junho gets.

It makes him regret everything he's said so far (and he's said so much these past few days, fuck, people should know better than to let him open his mouth, have they learned nothing from 2009?) and it makes his heart lurch in his chest because this kind of thing never happens between them, or at least never like this. Nichkhun looks up from his phone and clears his throat pointedly, a "fuck you, guys, don't do this shit while I'm still hanging around," but the guilt is only adding to the everything in Junho's brain and it just.

It just explodes. Flames reach out and consume everything in their way.

"You fucked her yet?"

"What the hell is  _ wrong  _ with—"

"Guys,  _ come on _ —"

Chansung is on his feet, both hands braced on the table while he stares at Junho with this mix of disappointment and disgust and probably Junho is extrapolating here, but that's exactly how it feels, like he's the worst thing on the face of the earth. He holds Chansung's gaze and silently challenges him to say something, anything, to either confirm or deny, but they both know that won't solve or change anything.

"Fuck you, Junho," Chansung says, bitter around every word and every muscle in his face and his shoulders and Junho sees red for a while because  _ yeah, you just did, only two hours ago _ , but even through it, he knows that's low, even for him.

"Why? So you can compare? Do share, how does she like it?"

Okay, maybe some things aren't beneath Junho.

"Are you listening to yourself?" Chansung's laughter is mad and disbelieving and ugly. It sort of punches Junho back on his ass. Good thing he's sitting down. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"I'm just saying, it kinda looks like you're fucking her on the side, and that's okay, I mean—whatever it takes to get the job done, right?"

That's the wound talking and they both know it and Chansung is standing right there looking like he got punched, except Junho feels punched, too, raw to the fucking bone, and he's not sure who he deserves to feel sorry for in this ugly picture. Maybe they're both pitiful. It could be, Junho's sure people wouldn't bet against it.

Chansung looks away first, his shoulders sagging. "Fuck you."

Nichkhun sighs loudly—oh right he's still here—and picks up his phone and his bag. "Actually, fuck you both. You're driving me insane. If you have to go and fuck it out of each other, then go. Just—stop this nonsense. Don't be pathetic."

Chansung snorts a laugh again, and just like before, it's ugly and tired and disappointed. Junho pushes at his plate of cold eggs and it's like the adrenaline—or whatever the fuck it was—sort of spills out of him and he's just sitting there, at their table, while Chansung shakes his head and starts to walk away like he can't do this anymore, like he's tired of this, them, whatever they are, and Junho wants to shoot back,  _ what the fuck are we, then? _ but if Hwang-I read philosophy books for shits and giggles-Chansung doesn't know, then who does?

And the worst part is Junho relates to the whole  _ I'm tired of this, us, whatever we are _ . So much and so deep within himself that he's surprised they haven't exploded at each other sooner. Or, like, he's surprised he didn't explode sooner. And the thing is it hurts, it's unsettling and it makes chills run down his spine because it's  _ Chansung _ , and it's Chansung who's walking away right now, shoulders tight and lips flat. Junho wants to stop him, wants to say he's sorry—even if he isn't—wants to make it right but doesn't know if it's worth it anymore.

Maybe this is how it's supposed to end. It hurts now, it does, but they'll get over it, because when push comes to shove, they are as professional as it gets. Even if they're stubborn.

"Listen—" he starts, but Chansung's snapping around and biting, "I don't care," and Junho closes his lips and lets him have at it, because it's probably what they need.

He remains sitting while Chansung's near the door, the cup he's holding squeaking under his fist. "I don't even know why I bother with you anymore," he says, angry and low and with his brows pinched; Junho's never seen him this mad, but then again, he's seen him mad before, so at least one thing's coming for sure.

"I fucking hate this."

And there it is, Junho greets it like he would a punch, face first so no one can call him a coward later. Yeah, Chansung hates it, hates it so bad his hands are shaking and Junho wants to confront him, wants to get in his face and shout,  _ go ahead and hate me, too, I don't care, I haven't in a while _ , but that's not going to cut where Junho wants it to, it's only going to make Chansung look at him with disappointment and Junho is  _ so  _ past that, already. What he wants is for Chansung to snap, once and for all, to put a name to this thing and maybe move on. Or keep it. Whatever happens first and whatever's cheaper and whatever makes it better because Junho hates it, almost as much as he needs it, and that's bad.

It's fucked up, when every line drawn between them starts to blur.

"That makes two of us," he says, and stands up slowly, raising his brows at Chansung when he laughs bitterly. "Why thanks, glad to see my words are so funny."

"Just shut the fuck up, will you?" Chansung groans, exasperated, and sets his cup on the isle counter with a decisive thump. Liquid sloshes over the rim. "Why do you always do this? Why is it, that every time I try to have a serious talk, you end up being you?"

Junho, on his way to dump his plate of cold eggs on the sink—really, thanks, Chansung, he was actually hungry for once—stops mid-track and stares disbelievingly at the fucking piece of man standing in front of him. "You're the one who laughed," he says between gritted teeth, and Chansung shakes his head, waving a hand dismissively.

"Right, of course, suddenly it's my fault." He raises his hands in mock-surrender and the smile on his face is fake and practiced and it's the one he uses for photo-shoots and Junho has learned to hate it viciously, so having it directed at him now, now of all times, sort of makes him even more upset. "I'm sorry, then, for being the one with the problem. Obviously, you're fucking perfect."

"I'm not perfect," Junho snaps, and shrugs like he can't help it because he can't and Chansung can't either, and this conversation—fight—is so pointless Junho's going to get a headache the size of Russia after it.

Chansung's sigh is deep and broken and tired. Disappointed. It stings. More than everything they've said so far and it makes Junho's hand shake around his plate, so that when he drops it, it skids to the side and almost ends up banging into a glass. Nothing breaks, thankfully, because Junho's not sure he can handle the wrath of their cleaning lady on top of Chansung's. Or his.

"Don't I know it," he says, and drops heavily on the chair Junho just vacated.

When Junho walks out, Chansung doesn't stop him. Worst thing is it doesn't even hurt as much as it should.

-

Later, though, later they're both too stressed and too strung up and maybe it's Chansung the one who moves first or maybe it's Junho, but it doesn't matter, not when they fit perfectly and Chansung's weight on top of him is solid and grounding, almost reassuring in a way that shouldn't, because it's not gentle or sweet or warm. There's nothing nice about it, either, there's a lot more teeth than usual and Junho flushes from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, and he wants more,  _ more, god, more _ and Chansung gives it to him, hard, fast and dirty.

There are going to be bruises tomorrow, shaped like Chansung's fingers framing his hips, like the curve of his mouth pressed to Junho's ribs. For now, Junho doesn't care; he presses his mouth to the soft spot under Chansung's jaw, not hard enough to bruise but enough to earn a heavy moan from him.

"Junho," he says, and then, " _ Junho _ ," and then it's like fire comes alight under Junho's skin, Chansung's thrusts going deeper each time, and the pain is  _ good  _ (the pain reminds Junho of how fucked up he's been all day and all for what? For absolutely fucking  _ nothing _ ), Junho can feel it in his bones, can feel it in every cell in his body, every bit of skin in contact with Chansung, and—like many other times—he has to bite down on his lip to stay quiet, because Nichkhun is somewhere in the house doing his thing and the door to Junho's room doesn't lock properly anymore.

But mostly Junho has to bite down on his lips so nothing,  _ nothing  _ spills out of him, so he doesn't blurt just how fucking insane Chansung drives him or how deep he's fallen for him.

They're right there, though, the words are right there— _ fuck, right there _ —Junho can feel them budding along with his orgasm, on the tip of his tongue just waiting to break free, on the pit of his stomach, spreading to the tips of his fingers where they're digging into Chansung's back, and it's not going to take long if Chansung keeps fucking him like this, deep and fast and—

He's stopping.  _ Fuck _ . Why is he stopping?

"What—why—what's—what are you doing?" Junho whines, because he has a right to, and because he wants to come.

Chansung's hips are barely moving as he props himself up on his elbows and then on one of his hands, and then he's pulling out, fist wrapped loosely around his cock to keep the condom in place. He's flushed all over, skin rosy and slick with sweat and Junho's mouth waters because if he had enough brainpower to spare, he'd put his mouth on Chansung's nipples and lick his way down to his—

"Roll over."

Junho swallows and takes a second to catch his breath because he's sure that if his dick comes in contact with anything right now, he might just—burst. It doesn't work, though, because when he looks up, Chansung's pupils are blown to shit and his lips are slick and raw from Junho's mouth. Junho's heart is just pounding in his ribcage like it's trying to break free and shit, he starts to roll over, slowly and keeping his eyes on Chansung's, and when he's lying on his stomach, Chansung's lips close around a patch of skin at the back of Junho's neck and Junho, admittedly,  _ keens  _ at this, desperate and needy because he  _ is _ , because he wants this and  _ more  _ and he wants Chansung to want it, too, desperately and with every bit of him.

Chansung's cock nudges at the skin of his lower back when he lets his weight down on Junho and he pushes his ass into it, and when Chansung chuckles, breathless and turned-on, Junho feels his lips break into a smile on their own. There are lips on his ear as Chansung's hand curls over his thigh and nudges it out of the way with his knee, damp breath and " _ JunhoJunhoJunho _ ," as that same hand hitches higher and higher until there are fingers teasing at the rim of Junho's hole, maddeningly slow and sweet but not  _ enough _ .

"Come on," Junho breathes, hips moving back into Chansung's fingers, "come on," and he's past the point of caring whether he has to beg for it or not, they both are, and even though Chansung is playing tough, there's a hitch in his breath as Junho's hips circle back into him.

It doesn't take long for Chansung to take a hold of his hips and put his cock right where Junho needs it. Chansung groans, a deep rumble that goes straight to Junho's gut, and then he's moving, hips rocking in slow, deep thrusts, making Junho rut into the covers. But Junho doesn't want to come like this—even though he wants to, though,  _ god _ , he wants to—so he tries to sneak one of his hands in between him and the bedding so he can jerk off in time with Chansung's cock fucking into him, but Chansung grabs his wrist and pins it to the bed, right next to Junho's head, and then he's taking a hold of the other one and doing the same and Junho forgets all about taking his cock in hand because this is so much better.

Chansung's breathing hard, mouth parted and lips wet, right in between Junho's shoulder blades, and it tickles, makes Junho squirm and seize up. Chansung is doing it on purpose, Junho knows this, because the tickles make him clench every muscle in his body, and that includes the place where Chansung is currently buried in, balls deep and hard as a rock and—

He's whispering something. Something Junho can't catch but sounds a lot like, "so infuriating," and "your fucking  _ mouth _ ," and "Junho," and "fuck,  _ Junho _ ," and then his hips are driving in deep and he stills, forehead pressed to the back of Junho's ear, teeth sinking briefly into the flesh of Junho's neck, and that's it for Junho, too; he comes with a choked moan—sounds a lot like a sob but that's neither here nor there—and it's like his heart stops with it, his body tingling all over under Chansung's mouth and fingers.

After he's cleaned himself as much as possible without actually getting out of bed and Chansung's warm next to him, face tucked into Junho's arm and out of view, Junho wonders if they'll ever talk about it, about them, about her and everyone standing outside their tiny, suffocating bubble.

Odds are they won't. Junho has to be in Tokyo in six hours and Chansung has to be in Beijing in three.

 

-

three: 

> "If it’s whenever we’re breaking up and I get held back after we both agreed to break up, then I would walk away without a single word."

Chansung gets back from China—once and for all, no more fucking stupid TV shows to shoot—on a Thursday night, close to midnight and after Junho's done tweaking the last song he'll include in the album. He drops his bags on the hallway and pads into Junho's room and drops face first on the bed, and if Junho weren't so upset about these fucking chords, he'd warn him about drooling on his pillow.

Instead, he closes his laptop and kicks his feet off the ground so his chair rolls back. "Hey," he says around a yawn.

There's no reply from Chansung's form, just a grunt and then silence. Junho takes a while to just sort of drink him in even though he can't see his face, catches the tightness of his shoulders and the stretch of his t-shirt, the way his pants cling to his waist and the inch or two he's missing from only a week ago. He's getting thinner and Junho doesn't like it, doesn't appreciate it, but there's nothing he can say against it, either.

It's been a quiet month. They've been busy and they've been apart and staying in touch is harder than it looks like. They call and they text—and sometimes they tweet—but it's not the same, and although all Junho wants is to say, "I fucking missed you," he's not sure if he should. They've been walking on eggshells around each other, and even if right now Chansung's half asleep and Junho's working on six cups of coffee and three hours of sleep, everything's tense between them.

Junho wonders if that's the default status of their relationship now, if their own separate fucked-up-ness is what ended up messing what they had of it's more of a team-work thing.

After a few minutes of silence, except for the whirr of the fan, Chansung rolls over and yawns widely, tucking an arm under his head. "Flight was fucking crazy. The airport was so fucking hot. And they lost my bag."

Junho hums. "Sure that last bit wasn't your fault?"

"Whose side are you on?" Chansung's brow wrinkles, and he looks so much like the Chansung Junho first met that it's a little unsettling.

Junho holds up his hands in a, "hey, I'm on your side and I love you, but you're sorta hopeless sometimes," and then waves a hand in the general direction of the kitchen. "Wooyoung's mom sent some kimchi stew, if you're hungry."

"Nah, too tired to eat," Chansung says.

"You've lost weight," Junho points out.

"Had quite a work-out in China," Chansung shrugs, and then he freezes, eyes on the ceiling, and Junho's stomach seizes up so hard he has to look away.

They don't mention it—any of it, her, or whatever, and Junho's tried so hard to stay out of it—so it drops heavily between them, now that Chansung's mentioned China out loud. Junho tries not to think about it because it's stupid, it doesn't have to mean anything, and yet it's like his brain can't compute, can't see past it and past the curl of anxiety growing in his stomach.

He gets to his feet, stretching his arms over his head, anything to do before he explodes. "I think I'm gonna crash, man. Haven't slept a blink in three days." He pushes his chair out of the way and then heads to the closet to find a new shirt because the one he's wearing smells funny. When he turns around, shirt in hand, Chansung's sitting at the edge of the bed, a careful look on his eyes, elbows leaning on his thighs as he twines his fingers together. "What," he asks. Or demands, more like.

"I—we need to talk," Chansung says, eyes locked on Junho's, mouth a tight line around his words.

_ There it is _ , Junho thinks,  _ this is the 'what happens after' _ . Truth be told, he'd been readying himself for this, for the inevitable, and now that it's here, it sucks to find out that it still hurts like a bitch. He wets his lips and nods, and rather than sitting down, he just shrugs his shoulders, hopeless and helpless and lost.

"Talk, then," he says, and Chansung closes his eyes briefly before looking at him again.

He looks stern. "This needs to stop," he says, waving a hand between them. "This—it has to stop."

It's like every muscle in Junho's body wants to volt out of the room and run until everything is behind him. It's not possible, though, and that's what makes it all so sad. It's not like his heart is breaking or anything but there's pressure in his chest and he can barely breathe past it, throat and stomach tight with—with  _ everything _ , with pain and disappointment and a smidge of relief.

He swallows. "Okay," he says, focusing on the t-shirt held loose in his fingers, the texture of it, the stroke of it between his palms, because if he focuses on something else he might lose it and shit would get nasty. He doesn't want that, doesn't need it, not right now. "Alright."

"You're not gonna ask why?" Chansung asks. He sounds disbelieving.

Junho shakes his head. "Whatever your reasons are, I respect them. So, no, I'm not going to ask why." He's surprised when his voice comes out as normal as ever, and so is Chansung, judging by the exhalation he lets out.

"Really, Junho? You choose  _ this  _ moment to act like a normal person?" he huffs, loud and anxious, and gets on his feet, too, features tight with anger. "Fucking figures."

Junho opens and closes his mouth uselessly for a few seconds before he registers the words. "Oh, and you choose  _ now  _ to act like I'm the one walking out? Give me a fucking break, will you." He's not angry but he's almost there and he doesn't want to be, because words just spill out when he's angry and they don't need this. "I'm getting tired of your bullshit attitude, Chansung, so, no, I won't fucking ask why is it you want this to stop because fucking maybe, I want it to be over, too."

Chansung takes a step back, as if punched, and Junho tries so hard not to feel good about it but fails miserably. He looks away and walks past Chansung towards his bed, drops his shirt on it and—and just stands there. He knows Chansung's standing there, too, just a few feet away, breathing loudly and biting at his lips. Junho breathes in deeply and exhales slowly, too afraid to open his mouth because he's said too much and not enough, he's gone and fucked it all over again, and he hates Chansung a little because it's mostly his fault this time.

It doesn't matter, though, and fuck Junho if he even knows why he tries, because when he turns around and maybe ask— _ demand _ —Chansung to leave, the fucker is  _ right there _ , and his eyes are so big and shiny and  _ resolute _ and Junho feels the same way—except for the big eyes, which, fuck you very much—and when they kiss, is not as unexpected as it should be.

Junho simply gives up. He gives up the fighting—well, somewhat—and the pretending—at least a little—and he gives as good as he gets.

Chansung's lips are dry and chapped and it's been too long since the last they kissed, way too long, so Junho gets a hold of his shirt and curls his finger into the fabric, tugs and tugs until Chansung's pressed close, until his arms are around Junho's waist and they're flush against each other. Chansung tastes like bad coffee and a lot of sugar, and Junho sighs into his mouth as they topple over the bed, falling with a bounce. Their mouths break apart for a second, but Chansung's diving in again, trapping Junho's lower lip between his own and sucking slowly. Junho lets out a quiet sound and Chansung's mouth is on neck and it feels nice, it feels—

No, wait—

Junho pulls away, chest heaving, sort of pushing at Chansung's shoulder weakly. "If this is a pity thing, you can go fuck yourself in your room," he says, voice rough and broken, searching Chansung's eyes.

"It wasn't— _ no _ ." Chansung shakes his head, holding onto Junho's wrist and squeezing tight enough to make Junho's heart skip a few beats. His lips are shiny with spit, a bit swollen, and Junho has to tear his eyes away from them before he gives in again. Chansung is shaking his head still, sitting up and putting some space between them. Feels like too much and not enough, the foot-long distance between them. "It isn't pity, what the fuck, Junho, where do you even  _ get  _ these ideas?"

"I thought you wanted this to be over," Junho says, defending himself, rearranging the hem of his shirt.

"I thought you weren't going to ask."

"I'm not asking," Junho says, shaking his head. "I just want to know what we're doing."

Chansung smiles, tiny. "I believe we were kissing."

"Why were we kissing?" Junho asks, and if his voice sounds pleading then it's probably just how badly he wants to sleep and be done with this—this conversation and this tension between them. "You come here and you say you want to break things off, I say okay, and then you get mad, and then I get mad, and then we're kissing?" He lets out a shaky breath. "You—you can't just pull this kind of shit on me, okay? I'm trying to do the right thing here because I respect your decision so, like, stop fucking with me and just get to the fucking point if you have one? You want this to be over? Fine by me."

"Liar," Chansung says, quiet and like it's a secret, his eyes narrowing a little.

"Fuck you," Junho snaps, and Chansung has the decency to chuckle at this.

He doesn't say anything, though, and for a while he looks at Junho like he's trying to figure out something but can't quite get there. Junho doesn't blame him, most times he can't figure out himself, either. Then, he says, "You actually think I've been fucking Liu Yan, don't you?"

Junho doesn't shout  _ what was I supposed to think? _ but it's a close thing. Truth is he's too shocked to even open his mouth, and maybe a little pissed. Instead, he bites at his lips and looks down at his hands. "How's that relevant to the conversation?" he asks shortly.

"Fuck that, you know she's the only reason why we're having this conversation in the first place." Chansung huffs, shaking his head. "I wasn't sleeping with her," he says quietly, and his thumb catches on the knob of Junho's wrist. "I think the only reason why I was mad at you believing that was because of—because of this thing between us. And when I said I want this to be over I meant—" he sighs, squeezes at Junho's wrist and then lets go. He runs a hand down his face, scratching at the back of his neck, and he looks so nervous and so desperate Junho wants to hold him. "I know we're—this thing? I know it's not, like, a  _ thing _ . And this past month has been hell, not just because of the lack of sex, but because—because I actually missed  _ you _ , you know. I hate the fact sex got in the way, to be honest, it's like it just fucked up things and changed  _ us _ ."

Junho breathes slowly, and dares to look at Chansung. He takes in every shift of expression, the curl at the corner of his mouth, the wrinkles in his eyes when he sort of smiles but doesn't. Junho's speechless, doesn't know what the right thing to say is, and he's not sure if he even wants to say something, too scared to muck it over because chances are he might.

"I guess I just don't wanna be into it if it's just for the sex," Chansung says. He shrugs when Junho doesn't say anything to that, either, and lets go of his wrist, looking away. "I just wanted to be clear on that."

"You don't want  _ just sex _ ," Junho deadpans, doesn't ask, and either way Chansung's shaking his head in response. Junho wets his lips, clenching and unclenching his fingers where they rest on his thighs because the need to touch Chansung is too strong and if he caves he might never say what he really wants to say. "It—" he starts, but his voice comes out shaky and he has to clear his throat before he opens his mouth again. "It hasn't been just sex for me. For a while now. So, yeah."

Chansung's lips form an 'o', and he sits up straight, as if shocked, and  _ yeah _ , Junho thinks,  _ I know right? _ He smiles, then, small and quiet and real.

They're so— _ so _ stupid. Seriously, Nichkhun was right, they're pathetic.

"So, are you saying—"

"Yes, I'm saying I have feelings for you," Junho says, almost exasperated and reaches up to touch Chansung's cheek softly, his heart literally in his throat when he leans in and kisses him softly on the lips. His hands are shaking and it's quite possible that his lips land on the corner of Chansung's mouth rather than dead center, but it doesn't matter because his chest is feeling lighter than it has in the last year, and Chansung's still smiling softly at him, and there's something in his eyes that's so tender and loving Junho can't stop the fucking butterflies in his stomach.

Junho's heart is beating so loud in his ears it's like his skull is shaking from the inside out. "Do you have feelings for me, too?" he asks, and Chansung chuckles under his breath, nodding. Junho prods. "What kind of feelings?"

Chansung rolls his eyes, but it appears to be fond, so Junho doesn't punch him for it. "You're gonna make me spell it out?" Junho nods shakily and Chansung sighs, and then he says, "I love you. God knows why, though, you're so exasperating sometimes."

"Well," Junho says, clearing his throat, "you're no better."

"I think that's why the sex is so great, though," Chansung says, a cheeky tone to his voice, and Junho grins.

"Yeah, maybe," he says, and draws Chansung in for another kiss.

**_the end._ **


End file.
